


I'll Do My Best By You

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Great Wall (2017)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Porn Without Plot, Smut, Tovar is injured, basically a love letter to our grumpy boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Tovar is injured and William asks you, the local healer, to bind his wound.
Relationships: Pero Tovar/Reader, Pero Tovar/You
Comments: 20
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

_ He’s awake. _

You sat up, completely alert despite the darkness, as the man on your bed stirred, a deep groan escaping his lips. Grabbing the canteen of water, you bent by his stretched out form, sliding your arm under his head to lift him up.

“Drink.”

He complied, barely, his eyes closed. Like this, the pale, aged scar over his left eye was more prominent, almost white against his tanned skin, weathered by the elements.

He coughed and you patted his back like a child, and he drank again, greedily. You watched his throat work and wished you weren’t attracted to his swarthy appearance, broad, lithely muscled form, and dark, soulful eyes.

“Enough?” you asked, but he’d slipped back into a doze.

You lay him down, the curling ends of his short, thick hair brushing against your wrist as you did so. For a moment that stretched, you watched him sleep, the odd moment of pain contorting his features. You weren’t sure you would have called him  _ handsome _ exactly, but something about his strong jaw, expressive eyes and hooked nose made him utterly compelling.

*********

_ Three days earlier _

Your village had been saved with the help of these two passing strangers; soldiers for hire by the look of their ragtag, mismatched armour. Fighting tirelessly, they had cut down the bandits, the Irishman with arrows flying faster than heartbeats, the Spaniard with swords as sleek as snakes of metal.

Now, the Irishman - William - stood at the door to your little cottage, the tanned Spaniard leaning heavily on him. 

“Will you care for him, please? He’s sustained a nasty wound, and I hear you’re the healer.” He smiled, but his wan face gave away the concern for his friend.

You nodded. “Let’s get him inside.”

Tovar - the Spaniard - muttered in his native language as you helped William carry him, lifting him on to the only bed you had.

“Do you trust me?” you asked.

William gave a curt nod, then smiled without humour. “Begging your pardon if I add that I’ve not much choice.”

You smiled back. The villagers kept you at arm’s length. Yes, you were a healer and a  _ good _ one. But not everyone understood your potions and healing methods. They needed you, but some of them feared you, so you lived here alone at the edge of the village, half in the embrace of the forest, with the owls and wolves and frogs for company.

“I understand. You helped save my home. I’ll do what I can.”

You gestured for William to clean his hands. As he did so, you took shears and cut Tovar’s tunic down the middle, parting the thick black fabric. A deep wound just under his ribs oozed bright red blood. Tovar breathed shallow, panting breaths. You breathed in deeply yourself, forcing your heartbeat to slow.

“The alcohol.”

William passed you the bottle. You uncapped it.

“The splint.”

He did as bid, and you stroked Tovar’s hair back from his forehead, then met his gaze. He nodded blearily and you shoved the smoothed wooden bit between his teeth.

He still screamed when you poured the alcohol liberally over the wound. William held him down as his big body bucked on the bed, and then the pain short-circuited his nerves and he passed out, the wooden bit dropping from his mouth.

“There,” you sighed. “I’ll clean and stitch it now. It’s deep, but doesn’t look infected. And then we wait.”

“Will he live?” William asked, and you saw real fear in his blue eyes, fear you hadn’t seen even a lick of when he’d been killing dozens of men.

“I don’t know. I’ll do my best by him.”

William nodded curtly. “Thankyou.”

His footsteps faded after he left the cottage. 

You gazed down at Tovar, unconscious, his face relaxed. He looked younger, softer, no trace of the almost feral scowl he’d worn during the brutal fighting.

*********

“How long have I been asleep?”

You jerked out of your reverie, and stopped pounding the herbs in your pestle and mortar, turning to see Tovar looking at you, a question in his dark eyes. It had been hours since you’d given him the water.

“In total? Three days.”

He growled a little in his throat; and unbidden, your gaze strayed to the line of his throat, the heavy stubble hugging his jaw, the line of his profile in the afternoon light.

“I stink,” he grunted, trying to move.

“Stop!” You hurried over to him, a palm on his sternum. “I need to check the wound.”

He lay still, co-operative and silent, as you parted his mangled tunic. The stitches were still in place, thankfully. The mingled scents of wild garlic, dandelion and cat’s claw floated up to your nose, no smell of infection followed.

You lifted the poultice away. The skin underneath was pink, knitting together in the exact way you’d hoped.

“You’re healing nicely.”

He grunted again. “If I did not, I would be dead, no?”

You smiled without much humour. “Such disregard for death.”

Tovar shrugged with one shoulder. “Such is the life of a swordsman for hire.” He groaned, deeply. “I need to….”

“Take a piss?” you asked.

His gaze shot to yours, surprise in those hazelnut eyes. 

You quirked a brow. “Just because I’m a woman, doesn’t mean I don’t know about bodily functions. Let me help you.”

Tovar scowled, but as he tried to push himself up on his arms, pain paraded over his face.

“I won’t look,” you assured him.

He didn’t seem concerned, his face twisting in pain as you skirted the bed and eased yourself under his arm, taking his weight as he hobbled with you outside the cottage, into the trees. 

You averted your gaze as he fumbled with the fastenings on his breeches. Curse words tumbled from his mouth and you rolled your eyes before helping him. He didn’t even attempt to bat your hands away.

“I can hold it,” he groused, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing at his grumpy little boy demeanour.

When he’d finished, you led him back to the cottage. He stood by the bed, awkward, dark eyes sweeping over the quilt. 

“And where have  _ you _ been sleeping,  _ hermosa? _ ”

You shrugged. “On some blankets by the fire. Standard when I have a patient to care for.

Tovar scowled, his eyes dark with displeasure. “I would not have ousted you from your bed.”

“You were… unable to disagree at the time. Are you hungry?”

His stomach growled loudly. Did you imagine it, or did a blush creep up his heavily stubbled neck? His dark moustache gave him the appearance of a permanent frown, and you found it strangely endearing.

“Rest.” You pointed at the bed, wearing the expression you knew struck fear into the hearts of lesser men. “Food, then you can bathe.”

Those soulful eyes spelled mutiny, but he did as you bid, wincing as he climbed on to the bed. You’d mix a fresh poultice to press to the wound after he bathed.

He’d likely need assistance. The push and pull of limbs needed to wash wouldn’t help his newly healed wound.

The thought of his long, lean tanned body in steaming water made something tug in your belly. What would those scarred hands feel like on your skin?

You pushed the thoughts aside, making a thick porridge, throwing in salt and a generous helping of the pork belly strips you’d traded for yesterday at the market.

When the food is ready, you move to the bed and stuff pillows behind Tovar’s back. He half sits up and you help him, then grab one of the bowls.

“I don’t need to be fed like a child,” he hisses, but you skewer him with the  _ look. _

“If you move your arms too much, the wound opens,” you say, steel laced in your tone. “If the wound opens, it gets infected. If it gets infected, you die.”

His eyes spit fire at you, but he jerks off a quick nod.

You spoon up the porridge. Tovar eats greedily, and you have to slow down your machinations so he doesn’t choke.

When the bowl is scraped clean, you can tell that just the effort of eating has exhausted him. You help him drink some water, his eyes half-closed. 

“A bath?” he croaks, that husky-edge voice dropped half an octave, and the deep baritone makes lust stir again, low in your belly.

“Sleep now. Can’t go to all this effort to save your life only to have you drown in a foot of water,” you snark, but fondly.

He doesn’t hear you; has already slipped into sleep.

*********

It’s the next morning when you wake Tovar. Last night, he cried out in his sleep and you’d woken in a blind panic, only to watch him in the throes of a nightmare. His arms wheeled and, still scared he’d break open the freshly healed wound, you’d scrabbled around for a solution and finally just curled up beside him, whispering soothing nothings into his neck.

Within seconds he’d calmed, murmuring  _ mi amor _ in that voice made for sin. You’d both slept, Tovar warm and still beside you. The weight of his body in your bed was comforting, the cadence of his breathing soothing you in the dead of night.

He grunted when you shook him gently to ease him out of sleep. Those big brown eyes opened, the slitted scar pale against the dark topography of his tanned skin.

“I’ve run you a bath.”

It’s balmy this morning, the sun for once not playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. You’ve dragged the wooden tub behind the cottage and paid a local boy to fill it eight pails of water, five of them heated under a log fire.

Tovar breathes heavily as you help him to relieve himself, then lead him to the bath. He comes willingly, like a sleepy child, and your heart breaks a little, because you’ve seen him in fighting form, his body a well oiled machine, swords swinging like extensions of his arms.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” you started.

Tovar huffed, his mouth quirking into a sad half-smile. “ _ That _ is normally my line.”

“And I have no doubt it will be again, but for now…” 

He stood obediently as you pushed the separated edges of his tunic off his shoulders, leaving him bare to the waist. Old scars littered his golden-hued torso, and your mouth watered, thinking about pressing your lips to each slice of puckered skin, each pale slash and crescent.

“Does this sad, damaged canvas offend you,  _ hermosa? _ ” Tovar asked softly.

“Offense is  _ not  _ what I’m feeling,” you murmured, bending to fiddle with the laces of his boots. He leant on your shoulders as you lifted his feet out of them, dealing with socks before easing down his loosened breeches. When you lifted your face back up, you saw an unmistakable tent in his undergarments.

Tovar cleared his throat, and you read an apology in the grimace on his face.

“It has been a while since a beautiful woman undressed me, no?” he asked softly, his words a caress on the balmy morning breeze.

Heat flooded your face at the compliment. Tovar lifted his legs so you could rid him of boots, breeches and socks, and then you turned away as he shucked his underwear. The gentle splash told you he’d submerged himself in the water.

You slid a cake of rosemary and lemon oil soap from your apron, knelt by the bath.

Tovar frowned. “ _ Hermosa. _ I can wash myself.”

“You  _ could, _ ” you replied, “But again. I don’t want you to pass out from exertion and drown. Earlier just  _ drinking water _ exhausted you.”

He quieted at that, his mouth set in grumpy lines.

You rubbed the soap between your palms. “Lie back.”

He closed his eyes and did as you bid, all that dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, and you plunge your soapy hands into it. Tovar let out a low moan and you were suddenly  _ very _ glad the butcher’s boy had left you here at the edge of the woodland, that no one saw how wet the little groans were making you.

The birds sing their song of morning as you wash the mercenary. The sunlight bathes his golden skin, highlighting the scars, some pale and smooth, some dark, puckered. A nasty one of his thigh catches your eye when he brings his knees up in the tub.

“A disagreement with a bandit,” Tovar said lazily.

You paused. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I can feel your eyes,  _ querida. _ ”

You continued washing his hair, massaging his scalp. Another low groan escaped his lips and zinged right between your legs.

“What happened to your eye?”

Tovar sighed, and you watched his chest rise and fall, let your gaze play on his dark, flat nipples, the expanse of golden skin. How would the hollow of his throat taste? “Back in Spain - my homeland. I was a boy. Some  _ cabrón _ attempted to steal my mother’s purse.”

Sympathy for a younger Tovar clutched at you, but you doubted he would appreciate it.

“What about the one on your shoulder?”

“Happened at a village much like yours.”

“You and William like playing heroes?”

Tovar scoffed. “We are  _ not _ heroes. Just men who fight for money.”

You scooped up water with a wooden cup, washed his hair clean. The chestnut brown gleamed in the sunshine, smelled of rosemary and lemon, “I don’t recall the elders giving you any money.”

He grunted. You had him there.

“Perhaps we are going soft in our old age,” he allowed.

You glanced at the water. The tip of his erection broke the surface, curved against his belly. How old was he? His forties, perhaps. “You don’t seem old.”

He smiled crookedly. “Tell that to my back.”

You soaped your hands again, dug your fingers into the bunched muscles that connected his shoulders to his neck. Tovar let out a noise of  _ absolute filth _ that definitely made you want to know how he’d sound if you touched other places on his body.

“Good?” you whispered.

“Exquisite,” he grated out. You watched his cock move in the water, and thought:  _ I’ll get there. _

At some point, he slipped off into a doze. You gave his muscles one last squeeze, pleased that you’d ironed out quite a few of the knots in his muscular frame.

It was easy to soap his chest, arms, and legs under the water while he slept. Occasionally as you touched him, he’d mutter what you inferred were Spanish endearments.  _ Hermosa. Cielo. Querida. _ What they meant, you had no clue. You were half-afraid to ask.

Your hand brushed his balls when you dropped the soap and he jerked awake, those deep brown eyes meeting yours.

“Sorry-” you stuttered out, torn between arousal and the little heart-jump of fear. 

“Please.”

That single word in his low, seductive tones gave you pause. For a second, you hesitated, but, who would see you? Your visitors were seldom, and you wanted to touch this man almost more than you wanted your next breath.

You set the soap on the lip of the bath and sank your other hand into the water, kneeling on the soft bed of grass, warmed by the sun. Tovar’s hands slid up your forearms, his grip gentle, his hands sword-calloused, and your heart stumbled.

You closed your eyes and Tovar leaned forward slightly, resting his forehead against yours. The gesture is silent, but so intimate that your eyes burn a little, matching the heat being stoked between your legs.

Hesitantly, listening, you scraped your nails along the bottom of his balls. A curse fell from his lips and you wrap your other, soapy hand around him, the slickness of your palm easing the path of your palm. 

His breathing became ragged as you learned the rhythm he liked, and your gaze flicked to his face to see his expression taut, mouth slightly open, eyes closed, long lashes resting on his tanned cheeks. The water moved when he canted his hips slightly into your hand, and you upped the pressure, your palm gliding smoothly up and down his cock, feeling every vein and ridge. You watched, entranced, as his belly drew tight, and you circled your fingers on his drawn tight sac. He hissed out a long breath, his wrist tight on your forearm, and as you drew your fingers over the red, swollen head of him, he came, the tendons stark in his neck. His breath came in pants as you stroked him through it, his fingers squeezing your arm to signal when he’d had enough.

Gently, you soaped the evidence of his orgasm off his belly, fingers stroking the arrow of hair that led to his groin. Tovar shuddered, eyes closed in bliss.

“You… did not have to do that,” he eventually breathed.

“I liked doing it.”

His eyes widened for a hot second.

“And what about you, mmmm,  _ hermosa? _ What can I do to conjure such moans from your lips?”

“Nothing, until I’m convinced that your wound isn’t going to open,” you replied sternly.

Tovar slid one scarred hand up your arm and into your hair, caressing the nape of your neck with a gentleness you wouldn’t have thought he’d had inside him, before. “Not even a taste of you?” he whispered. “ _ Por favor.” _

Helpless to resist, you met him when he leaned towards you and touched his mouth to yours. His lips were soft, his moustache gently tickling. Craving more, you opened for him, and he eagerly licked into your mouth. You leaned closer, barely noticing the side of the bathtub digging in to your stomach. You thrust a hand into his thick, damp hair, soft as silk now it had been washed. Tovar groaned into your mouth as you gently scratched your nails along his scalp, and you bit down gently on his lower lip then laved the tiny hurt.

“I want you,” Tovar growled against your lips, one of his hands coming up to cup your breast through the coarse fabric of your apron, moulding your flesh none too gently, but you loved the roughness. Craved it. 

“Not until you’re better.”

Tovar sighed, nuzzling your cheek. “And until then? I must satisfy myself with only my hand?”

A smile curved your lips. “Not at all. I can touch  _ you _ as much as I like. You are the one who must stay still in order to heal.” At the look of consternation strewn over his starkly handsome face, you freed a hand and brushed it over his cock, half-hard again, and he jerked in the water, panting, his belly tensing.

“Oh,  _ querida. _ I will not survive such an instruction, but it seems as if I shall die a happy man.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tovar gets his revenge on our reader. In a smutty way.

The days passed slowly, blissfully, as Tovar healed. William came to visit a couple of times. If he noticed the way Tovar cupped a hand possessively over your knee, he didn’t mention it, but you caught him smiling at his friend when the Spaniard wasn’t looking.

When the Irishman left, you glanced over at Tovar. “You don’t have to stake your claim on me like a dog.”

“Even if it will kill me to see another man touch you?”

“You survived this wound, didn’t you?” You trailed your hand down his chest, bare but for the banding wrapped around his middle, smelling of the herby poultice you continued to apply. He was healing nicely, though.

His gaze flicked to yours, that deep, soulful brown. “I would not survive it if you belonged to another. Do you?” he asked, husky voice deepening. “Belong to another man?”

You walked your fingers down his abdomen. “And do you think so low of me that I’d have touched you like that, in the bath, if I was with another man?”

His eyes flicked away. “Forgive me,” he rumbled, at length. “It is often the case that William is a preferred partner for the women we encounter on our travels.”

Your heart sank for him. “Perhaps you’ve been encountering the wrong women?” Your fingers played with the fastenings to his breeches now, and Tovar’s breath hitched.

“It’s crossed my mind since meeting you,  _ querida. _ ”

“And what conclusions have you come to?” You stroked a finger down from the leather thong holding his breeches in place. He was hard under them, and you kissed your fingertip along his length, paying special attention to a spot where a plume of dampness darkened the linen. 

Tovar hissed.

“Well…?” You prompted.

Tovar’s fingers clenched and unclenched on the bed as you sat next to him, idly tracing the shape of his cock through his breeches. He wore no underwear and you let your whole hand play, feeling his ridges and veins, delighting in the little jerks when you hit a sensitive spot.

He fell back on the bed, hands in tight fists.

He’d remembered that he wasn’t supposed to move.

You knew there’d be  _ hell _ to pay when he’d healed, and you couldn’t wait.

“More?” you asked sweetly.

“More,” he gritted out. “Everything. I want  _ everything _ from you,  _ hermosa. _ ”

When he segued into Spanish you couldn’t deny him anything. “Your wound,” you began.”

“I am healed and  _ you _ know it,” he growled out. “Woman-”

And you put your mouth on him through the linen and his eyes squeezed shut, face creased in pain and pleasure. His head fell back on the pillows. You knew when you lay down to sleep, after he left, you’d smell him on the fabric, have something to remember him by. Because he and William would leave. Why would they stay?

You pushed those thoughts aside, because for now you had Tovar underneath you, writhing and panting, and the memory of this would sustain you when you were alone again.

“I never wanted to do this to William,” you whispered against him.

You felt him tense under your lips.

“What I would give to know what you are thinking when you caress me thus,” he breathed, and his baritone was melodic and you could listen to him talk  _ forever. _

You mouthed at him through the linen, tasting his musky scent, licked at the damp tip of him, felt his legs tremble under you. “You really want to know?”

He pressed his hips up into your mouth, groaning. “ _ Por favor. _ ”

“”I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have this big, beautiful Spaniard spread out under me. How happy I am to map his scars with my tongue. How fortunate I am that he lets his guard down enough around me to let me worship his warrior’s body.”

Tovar’s breath hitched, and his hand slid into your hair, fingers gently stroking - he’d not touched you so tenderly before.

Maybe he’d never been given these words. And suddenly you wanted to hang the moon for him.

You glanced up. His face was contorted, caught in the thin line between pleasure and desperate need. You untied the leather cord and tugged his breeches open, easing his cock out. He mumbled something unintelligible as you licked a stripe from the base to the tip, over and over until his stomach muscles trembled. 

“How much I want to feel him inside me. How much I want to spread my legs for him and him alone, hear him whisper the language of his birth into my ear as he takes me so hard, I know I’ll feel it for days.”

Tovar ground out our name, his free hand clenched in the bedsheets. He was mumbling something helplessly in Spanish, ending with,  _ te necesito. _ ” You’d have to ask William later what that meant.

His fingers scrabbled in your hair when you brushed a kiss over the swollen head of him, then flicked your tongue over, licking up the drops of liquid he gave you for your trouble. With your fingers you traced his veins and ridges until his breath came in shallow gasps.

You spread your free hand over his lower abdomen, tracing the muscles there, feeling them flutter under your touch.

His skin was smooth and warm, lightly furred with an arrow of hair leading to the place where you worked him over with your mouth, cataloguing every gasp and groan from his lips.

“I’m thinking,” you whispered against the leaking slit in his cock, “How I’ll touch myself to the memory of the scent and taste of him when he’s gone. How I don’t think anything will compare to the weight of him on me.”

“ _ Mierda, _ ” Tovar bit off.

He pressed his hips up again and you took pity on him, taking as much as of him in as you could with no warning. The noise he made was pure filth. You’d take it to your grave. His hand fisted in your hair as you licked and sucked him fervently, drinking in his flavour and the texture of his skin. You let your fingers play in the sensitive skin at his base, and he came with a desperate gasp, like a man drowning allowed a gasp of air after too long, and you drank down everything you gleaned from him, gently soothing him through the high with the flat of your tongue, until he shuddered and pushed gently at your shoulder, legs shaking.

You tucked him back into his breeches and he threw an arm over his eyes, spent, chest heaving.

“You’re trying to kill me, woman,” he whined.

“Oh?” you walked your fingers up his chest. “Should I stop?”

He opened one eye. “Never.”

********

That evening, you took the bandages off. The new skin over Tovar’s wound was less pink, more of his usual golden colour, thicker. When you kissed your fingers over the paler flesh, he didn’t flinch or hiss out a breath as he had in the days before.

“That looks better.”

Tovar cupped your chin. “Thanks to you.”

“I’m a healer, it’s what I do.”

He eyed you, that soulful brown seeing everything you gave him, and more, things you didn’t want to share, but he saw them anyway. “And yet the people avoid you, no? Why? They are soft in the head, perhaps.”

You smiled at his defence of you. How he’d changed since the day he’d all but bit your head off when you’d tried to feed him. 

“Perhaps. Scared of what they don’t understand.”

“Why do you do it?” he asked, and the candlelight from your simple worktable kissed the planes and angles of his handsome face, highlighting his strong jawline, the hook of his nose, the little crease in his lower lip, as if God himself had placed his thumb there to leave a mark of a job perfectly done.

“If not me, then who?” you asked, leaving his healing skin unbound. The air needed to get to it now. “It’s past time to sleep, Tovar.”

He caught your hand as you stood. “Pero. It’s Pero, my first name.”

“Pero.” You tested it on your tongue. 

“He tugged you close. He sat on the bed, and widened his legs so you stood between them. “Again.”

You carded your fingers through his thick, soft hair, cloudy from a wash earlier with the rosemary cypress soap. “ _ Pero. _ ”

His gaze fixed on yours, and the candlelight bathed his face in amber and gold, and he was so handsome in that moment that he stole the breath from your lungs. “Tonight, woman, you sleep with me in this bed. No more hard floor for the back of an angel,  _ si? _ ”

“There’s hardly room,” you scoffed, pulling away, but he held you fast.

“You sleep with me tonight.” His gaze offered no room for argument.

And that was how you fell asleep tangled around him, his hand in your hair, your lips against the hollow of his throat, listening to the steady thrum of his heart under your splayed fingers, your legs in between his, the weight of his arm comforting around your waist.

In sleep, he was even more beautiful, his lashes long and dark against those gorgeous cheekbones, that mouth made for sin slightly open in slumber. His hair curled over his forehead and at the nape of his neck, and you traced his features with your gaze in the near-total darkness.

_ Don’t go. _

But he would. Of course he would.

********

You woke to an empty pillow next to you, and the sensation of coldness on your stomach. You rubbed your eyes sleepily - and stubble brushed the inside of your thighs.

You yelped, and opened your eyes to see Tovar kneeling at the end of the bed, mouth at the apex of your body, your legs on his shoulders, looking very much like a man about to feast.

“What…?” you croaked, wondering if you were dreaming.

Tovar quirked a dark brow. “You are always saying I should eat, no?” And then he licked a slow, thorough stripe from your entrance to your clit, and repeated it until you felt your legs quiver on his shoulders.

“ _ Pero. _ ”

The dawn chorus filtered in through your shuttered windows as he explored every inch of you with his tongue, the pleasured groans from his lips feeding your arousal.

“ _ Deliciosia,” _ he murmured over and over, drinking from you, curling his tongue around that little bud of nerves, and then sliding two fingers inside you, one centimetre at a time, while you tried to press yourself further on to his digits. He was made of steel, single-minded, holding you still by a hand of iron on your hip. “Patience,  _ hermosa.” _

“I’ll give you patien -  _ Ohhhhh,” _ you sighed out as he licked you just right, and your muscles started to flutter. He thrust in and out of you faster, harder, and you spread your legs, feeling the little tickle of his moustache and stubble on your inner thighs, and  _ then, _ oh, you were flying.

He worked you through it with little strokes of his tongue, sucks from his lips, and you lay bonelessly on the bed, staring at the thatched ceiling, wondering what your name was.

“Please,” you whispered, and Tovar climbed over you on the bed, his gaze hot on yours, and he settled over you. You curled your arms around his broad back, your fingers caressing a crescent shaped scar two thirds down his spine, and he entered you in one smooth slide.

_ Oh, God, _ was all you could think as he settled inside you, his mouth brushing your chin, your cheeks, your fluttering pulse point. You tangled your fingers of your free hand into his thick, soft hair, bring his mouth back to yours. “Please,” you whispered. “Make love to me, Pero. Please.”

He growled low in his throat and then he  _ moved, _ breaking all the dams of desire inside you. You lifted your hips to meet each cant of his, gasping into his mouth, and then sobbing his name

In one endless prayer as he slid a hand between your bodies to circle your clit.

You created over the peak together, Tovar groaning against your lips as his hips shuddered. You dug your heels into his thighs, holding him as deep inside you as possible. Stars exploded beneath your closed lids.

“ _ Cielo,” _ Tovar whispered as he settled atop you, his weight warm, comforting. “I think in English.. It is Heaven. You are heaven.”

You held him tight, and half-hoped that William would just forget to ever come and take him from you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William returns for Pero.

Two evenings later, a knock sounded at your door. It was too late to be one of your few friends in the village come to chat. You knew who it was.

Pero lay next to you in bed, dozing, on his stomach, his arm heavy and comforting over your stomach. The man slept like the dead and you wondered idly how he hadn’t been killed on a sellsword mission, in his slumber.

You eased yourself out from under his arm. He mumbled something, his face momentarily creasing into its habitual scowl before softening again.

Because you apparently had no willpower, you dropped a kiss on his forehead. 

You loved him. You shouldn’t. It was stupid.

But your heart wanted what it wanted.

Pulling on your thick robe, you plodded to the door, yanking it open to see William. Your shoulders slumped.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he said gravely. “Our Captain’s put the word out. There’s an opportunity.”

_ Opportunity. For death maybe, _ you thought, unspeakably sad, and angry. But you nodded. “He’s sleeping. Come back in the morning?”

William nodded, starting to turn, but then hesitated. “Thankyou. Truly. For all you’ve done.” He reached into his shoulder bag, ferretted out a little bag, jingled it. “For your services.”

“There’s no need.” The only thing you wanted, this man was going to take from you.

William took your hand, uncurled your fingers, pressed the money into your palm. “Please take it. You saved the life of my best friend.”

And then he was gone, boots crunching on fallen leaves. You closed the door and leaned your forehead against it, stifling a sob.

“ _ Querida? _ ”

You swiped your free hand over your face, turned to see Pero standing a few feet away, a question sketched on his handsome visage. 

“Who was that?”

“William.”

“Oh  _ Si _ .” He scrubbed a hand over his face. He wore only loose back trousers slung low on his hips, and the light from the guttering candles on various surfaces in the cottage bathed his tanned skin in amber and gold. His skin had healed very well. “He has come to fetch me for a job, no?”

“He has. He’ll be back tomorrow.” You turned back to the door.

“ _ Cielo.” _

You didn’t move, but heard Pero’s footfalls as he crossed the small space towards you. “Would you look at me?”

Slowly you turned around, back to the door, hating the way your eyes were so wet.

He lifted a hand and cupped your cheek, and you sighed at the feel of his palm, warm, a little rough. “You should be happy, no? You worked miracles on these old bones. I will be a burden to you no more.”

“Don’t say that,” you choked out. “Go back to bed.” You swiped at your eyes, angry at crying in front of him.

“ _ Querida. _ ”

“Don’t… don’t be nice to me. When you’re leaving tomorrow.”

His face fell, and he crowded into you, embracing you, gathering you to him. Helpless, you went to him, burying your face in the hollow of his throat, breathing him in, half-desperate. “The life of a sellsword is not one that lends itself to love,  _ querida. _ ”

Your gaze snapped to his. “You  _ love  _ me?”

His brow quirked. “What else do I call this ache in my chest when I think of leaving this village behind, hmmm? What else do I call this hunger only you can satisfy?”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t go….?” you asked tremulously.

Pero gently touched his forehead to yours. “And what would I do, hmmmm,  _ hermosa? _ Assist you with bandaging the villagers who barely speak with you? Make myself useful around the town in some way? Sweep the floor for you?”

You laughed weakly. You couldn’t imagine him doing those things.

“If you go, you could die,” you whispered, breaking eye contact.

“Or perhaps I could bring you the spoils of my contracts, no? Beautiful things from faraway places.”

That he was thinking of a future with you in it made your heart clench. “I don’t need beautiful things.” You spread your hands over his bare chest; warm, scarred, the sparse hair coarse under your palms. You liked the roughness. “You’re all the beauty I need.”

He chuckled. “Such fine words that an old sellsword does not deserve.”

“Sometimes it’s not about deserving.” You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, leaned into him. “Sometimes it’s about not wanting to lose something you just found.”

Pero tugged you away from the door. “Come to bed,  _ querida. _ ”

And you let him lead you to the bed, let him lay you down on it. Open your arms for him and embrace him fiercely, feel his heart beating against yours.

When he slid inside you, the only feeling you could marry it to was one of coming home. Of perfectness. And after he fell asleep, one arm draped heavily over you, you gazed at his face until the candles guttered out, trying to burn his long dark lashes, stern brows, and full bottom lip into your memory, to remember when you were alone again.

*****

  
  


Pero was clearing away the crumbs from your breakfast of bread, honey and butter when William knocked again. You crossed to the door with a heavy heart, wishing that last night you’d shoved the bag of coin back in his annoyingly genial face.

You yanked the door open, and William stands there. He’s holding Pero’s looping back scabbard with the two swords slotted into the custom leather sheaths.

“Morning.”

He did at least have the grace to sound embarrassed.

“Morning.” Your mother brought you up with too many manners to be rude. “It’s time?”

“It’s time.”

Behind you, Pero stood. He’d dressed this morning, black tunic, black trousers, underwear, boots, leather armour. Last night you’d stitched the tears in his tunic as he sat by you, telling tales of his assignations with William. They had been friends for so many years. You could never ask him to choose you over his brother. They might not have been bound by blood, but you knew, sometimes the bonds of family you chose went deeper still.

“Give me a moment, William?” he asked, his dark gaze flicking over his friend.

William nodded stiffly, his face flushing for a second, and you wondered that he didn’t have a woman waiting for him, or at least someone he thought of as home.

It was a hard life, the life of a sellsword on the road.

The door banged shut behind him and you steeled yourself.

“ _ Mi amor,” _ Pero murmured. He cupped his hands over your shoulders, leaned his forehead against yours. “I must go. But I will come back. If you will have me.”

You slid a hand up into his thick, dark hair. “How long?”

“I cannot say.” His voice hitched as he added, “I understand you may want to.. Take other lovers.”

You scoffed. “No. I don’t want other lovers. I will wait, but, not forever.”

He tugged you close, fitting you into his lines of his armoured body, and you exhaled shakily, holding him. “It feels wrong to let you go. I just found you,” you murmured into his chainmail.

“It is the only life I know,  _ cielo.” _ He stepped back, tipped your chin up with one finger. “Perhaps one more taste of you, to carry with me on the long nights with only the Irishman for company?” There was mischief in his eyes, but you saw the sadness behind it and your heart clenched.

You nodded and he kissed you, softly at first, then deeper, and you opened for him, your tongue dancing with his, and then the energy turned hot and urgent, and you looped your arms around his neck.

“One more time,  _ please _ ,” you whispered, uncaring that William waited outside in the cold, and Pero scooped you up and walked you to the nearest wall. You scrabbled frantically at the ties to his breeches, freeing him, your greedy fingers stroking him, and he moaned into your mouth, one hand leaving your hip to gather your skirts, and in the next heartbeat he was inside you.

You buried your face in his neck as he started to move, and you expected him to set a punishing pace, but instead he moved slow and languid, whispering nonsense in a mix of English and Spanish, his voice low, raspy, and you came together, your eyes wet.

With the utmost gentleness he set you on your feet, kissed you fiercely, teeth scraping, and then swept out of the door.

You watched the wood vibrate in his wake; heard the canter of horses.

And then all was quiet.

****

Two months passed. The season changed. You helped the villagers, as you always did. A few more of them had warmed to you, you had, after all saved the life of one of the mercenaries who’d dispatched bandits. That alone had elevated your status. A little.

You busied yourself prepping for the winter. A winter you hoped you wouldn’t be spending alone. You collected firewood; roasted meat and salted it, buried bundled nuts. Prepared poultices for fingers and toes that would be chafed by the coming cold.

And then, one not so special day, as the wind fluttered the leaves off the trees that lined the back of your land, the pound of horses’ hooves made you look up.

William and Pero tode towards you, the horses kicking up dust and mud in their wake. Pero’s stubble was heavy, his hair longer than you’d ever seen it, tied back in a little tail, and a cloak billowed around his shoulders.

You dropped the branches you’d been tying together and ran, your skirts bunched up in your hands. Your boots skidded a little in the mud but you went as fast as you could, your heart thudding, skin hot.

Pero pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted so quickly you thought he might topple, and then he was running, too, and you leapt the final two feet and he caught you, and held you so tightly, and you pressed your face to his and it wasn’t clear whether your tears or his were hot on your cheeks.

You waited a dozen heartbeats before you pulled back to look at his dear face, smooth your palm along his thick stubble. “You came back.”

He scoffed. “I said I did, no? A Spaniard always keeps his word.”

“I’m not taking him out again,” William said mildly from horseback. “Like an old woman, he was. Pining. I-” and then a woman shouted his name from a distance and he too, leapt off his horse and went running.

You pressed your face into Pero’s neck and smiled. 

“I think I would like to stay here. With you,  _ cielo, _ ” Pero murmured into your hair. “If an old dog like me can learn new tricks. If there is room for me at your hearth.”

Your heart simply filled up with joy, as happiness unfurled inside your chest. You burrowed into his broad warmth. “That depends. How good are you at sweeping?”


End file.
